


That's Not What I Meant By Touché

by kafkaandchill



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23867758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kafkaandchill/pseuds/kafkaandchill
Summary: A teammate and I were discussing what a TMA statement from a fencing competition would look like. If you've ever listened to a classic statement and thought "this is fine, but you know what it needs? fencing," I've got you covered.(Contains minor violence and body horror)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	That's Not What I Meant By Touché

Statement of Elisa Winkowski, regarding a paranormal encounter at a fencing tournament. Original statement given April 12th, 2011. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, head archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins:

So I assume you’ve know what fencing is, right? — Truth to be told, it’s a pretty silly sport. It’s all steeped in nobility and rarified etiquette, a thousand stiff rules about how you can move, when you can score, that made my head turn for the first sixth months of learning it. And it’s not like it hasn’t got noble origins: on some level I think on some level we all imagine we’re still in the Renaissance, complete with doublets and high-heeled boots. But honestly, for all the prissy French words, your prise de fer and contre-temps, it’s people in strange white outfits, leashed onto metal boxes, mimicking a culture that’s been dead for more than a century. Not practicing, just mimicking. There aren’t really any duels or points of honor, not anymore.  
Most of the time you don’t notice this. It has its own modern culture. It’s not like you’re really spending all your time attempting to resuscitate a dead practice. All of this is to say that it’s not like anything felt off at first when I went to that competition. I mean, I felt off, but that was because I had gotten up at six. My teammates were all there, I had a muffin and honestly? It was a beautiful spring day. Not really the best day to be locked in a gym almost from dawn to dask, matter of fact, but I was in a good mood nevertheless. There were these big windows in the gym, too, that let in the morning light. And it quickly proved to be the most well-organized competition I’ve ever been too. Usually there’s quite a lot of chaos—teams unsure where to go, lots of rounds run overtime, and we slip further and further behind schedule, but none of that happened that day. There wasn’t even yelling. It was downright peaceful, which was—a little odd, I’ll admit, but like I’ve said, I was in a good mood and willing to go along.  
We finished our warm-ups, the proper announcements were made—and it’s dead silent during these, not a single person whispering—and soon enough I’m up. I went up to the other fencer to test masks, as is standard, but she already had it on. Now you have to have your mask off to test it, to make sure you’re not completing the circuit through contact with your lamé, and I gestured for her to take it off, but she didn’t react. I started to look at the ref, but he was already yelling “En garde!” I suppose I could’ve stopped him there, but I was a little unsettled and my instinct was to retreat to the en garde line and yank my mask over my face. She hadn’t tested mine either. Although I did see her salute me and the referee before the bout started, mask still on. The ref went “ready fence!” in one breath, and I flew at her, hoping that she won’t be as fast. I hadn’t had time to formulate any other plan. As it turned out, I lunged and hit much faster than her, but when she hit my arm I felt a sharp jolt of pain, not the pending bruise of someone hitting you with a blunted blade but the sting of a cut. I could barely fathom the idea that she had a sharp blade, and I looked at my arm, but there wasn’t any visible mark. The ref announced “En garde, ready, fence!” again, as rapid-fire as before, and in the two seconds I had I decided that I must have been imagining things. I was just a little weirded out by her not taking off the mask and interpreted a bruise as a cut, that was all. The next time I chose the same strategy—hell, it had worked the first time—but lined myself up so that I would be eye to eye with her mask, if she chose the same move. She did, not to her credit, but when I tried to see behind her mask I just saw—black. I figured I chose the wrong angle. The ref called halt so quickly that she hadn’t even hit me that time, but froze her blade in midair.  
The next two points went by in much the same way, except that I’m careful to beat her blade away after every touch. I wasn’t worried about missing the point, as she wasn’t even a strong fencer, but I fear what might happen if the metal made contact with my skin.  
But on the final point, she flew at me in an almost inhuman blur, and I retreated in a panic. Before this she hadn’t shown any kind of aptitude for speed, and the shock only fed my fear. I blindly spun my blade around, not thinking of parries or ripostes, just hoping to make contact. Somehow I did: I have no memory of what happened but the buzzer light went off for my touch. The other fencer stopped dead, her blade an inch or two away from my mask—and then I could see clearly that it was sharp and thin enough to slip through the mesh—with unsettling abruptness, as if someone had turned her off.  
I detached my cord, though with my shaking hands it took three attempts, and began to stumble off the strip. The idea of observing such formalities as handshakes with a creature like her seems as absurd as following any other medieval etiquette, but when I turned around she was almost on top of me, her gloved hand outstretched. Her glove collapsed under my grip. It was plainly visible but neither the referee nor my teammates commented, and I didn’t dare say anything to them either. The idea of warning them not to let her blade touch them occured to me but something, I still don’t know how much of it was fear and how much the influence of the place, stayed my tongue.  
The others cheered as Jackie stepped onto the strip, although the cheers didn’t sound entirely honest. The fencer didn’t even pretend to wait this. As soon as she’s attached to the machine and standing she lunged at her, faster than she had ever moved for me, but still jerky and uncoordinated. I have to assume it was by luck she hit Jackie’s left hand, the only exposed skin on her body, and within a second I saw blood beading from a long, thin cut. Jackie froze, flexed her hand like she wasn’t sure if the muscles still worked. Then she seemed to shake off her confusion and began to advance, but it was as if she’s forgotten every single rule of fencing. Before she had been elegant, quick but now she acted like she’s never held a blade before. She makes an even match with the other fencer. They go through a bout that would’ve been painful to watch even if I hadn’t been rooted in place by fear. The only thing done with any sort of grace is the end, when they pointedly shake hands. The gloves stayed stiff under pressureless grasps.  
When Jackie rejoined us she didn’t take off her mask. Olivia and Nastasya’s faces were blank. I must have looked the same. I wanted nothing more than to stop Olivia from going up—but no, that’s not true, more than anything I wanted to not attract the attention of that creature. I quietly slipped my mask back on. Behind the metal grating the sunlight streaming through the window took on a harsher tint, artificial like fluorescent lighting, and the other strips in my peripheral vision grew brighter somehow, as if they were embraced by a new source of life. I try to ignore this, to return my focus to the fencer—but she was gone. The place she’s meant to be, all the way to the tip of her sword, was cut out, vanished from existence, like she had decided to excise herself from the world. Beyond it there was a blinding white light. Still the figure moved, slashing her way through the jungle before her while letting it spring back up as she completed the lunge and swept her blade below Olivia’s mask, grazing the exposed skin of her neck. I saw the blood for only a moment before Olivia appeared to flicker, the shadows she casts retracting. Watching it was like realizing the trick of an especially masterful work of art, where the trompe l'oeil is defeated and you are left with a strange assortment of paint. Then the next trick ended, and Olivia is gone entirely. Only the white backlight could be seen where she was. The cut-outs went up to each other, pretended to shake hands. It was a dull surprise that struck me when I saw both the referee’s and Nastasya’s eyes following empty space, and I made out an insubstantial figure, shaped like Olivia, mask still on, walking off the strip. 

Nastasya’s eyes were wide and panicked, but she pulled her mask down and stumbled onto the strip with uneven motions. The other fencer’s steps were light and pretty. There was no trace of the roughness when it was my turn. She extended her hand, and though I couldn’t see her face I felt her grin. Nastasya had just attached the cord and lowered herself into en garde position, but far behind the en garde line, almost off the strip. When the other fencer’s show of courtesy went unappreciated she shrugged a little and throws herself at Nastasya, covering the distance at a speed no human body should have been able to. I could’ve sworn I saw her legs stretch, doubling in length and bringing her to Nastasya in two advances. Maybe it was this wrongness that startled me into action, or the thought that in a moment I would be the last one standing, because despite the fear that I would be found out and torn to shreds that had kept me rooted to the ground, I covered the few feet between me and the other fencer and slammed my saber into her stomach. With several layers of padding and the edge blunted for safety, it could never have drawn blood, but it’s very easy to break vessels beneath the skin. The other fencer stopped dead, her blade frozen in midair once again, and began to … extend, is how I’d put it. Or glitch. Like a bad simulation of a human.

I may be able to face down a sword but I’m still a coward. Or smart, depending on how you think of it. I took Nastasya’s hand and ran. No one tried to stop us, or maybe no one could. The window was right there but I didn’t even try to look back. Nastasya and I stumbled our way onto the train and got home with only a few odd glances cast at the sweaty, shaking women in clothes out of a sci-fi movie. We reassured ourselves with the thought that nothing could be done about Jackie and Olivia. They were already dead. As far as we knew, everyone else in that room was dead by the time we left. 

Three months have passed since then. I’m certain Jackie and Olivia are gone for good, and sure enough I haven’t heard a word about them. I never knew many other people in that room, but I could swear I’ve received texts from everyone I had said more than a sentence to. Most of them say ‘miss me?’ with a smiley face after. I haven’t responded to any.


End file.
